THE LIBRARY WINDOW

A STORY OF THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN

from Blackwood's (1896-jan)

by Mrs. (Margaret) Oliphant

I

I WAS not aware at first of the many discussions which
had gone on about that window. It was almost opposite one
of the windows of the large old-fashioned drawing-room of
the house in which I spent that summer, which was of so much
importance in my life. Our house and the library were on
opposite sides of the broad High Street of St Rule's, which
is a fine street, wide and ample, and very quiet, as
strangers think who come from noisier places; but in a
summer evening there is much coming and going, and the
stillness is full of sound--the sound of footsteps and
pleasant voices, softened by the summer air. There are even
exceptional moments when it is noisy: the time of the fair,
and on Saturday nights sometimes, and when there are
excursion trains. Then even the softest sunny air of the
evening will not smooth the harsh tones and the stumbling
steps; but at these unlovely moments we shut the windows,
and even I, who am so fond of that deep recess where I can
take refuge from all that is going on inside, and make
myself a spectator of all the varied story out of doors,
withdraw from my watch-tower. To tell the truth, there
never was very much going on inside. The house belonged to
my aunt, to whom (she says, Thank God!) nothing ever
happens. I believe that many things have happened to her in
her time; but that was all over at the period of which I am
speaking, and she was old, and very quiet. Her life went on
in a routine never broken. She got up at the same hour
every day, and did the same things in the same rotation, day
by day the same. She said that this was the greatest
support in the world, and that routine is a kind of
salvation. It may be so; but it is a very dull salvation,
and I used to feel that I would rather have incident, I
whatever kind of incident it might be. But then at that
time I was not old, which makes all the difference. At the
time of which I speak the deep recess of the drawing-room
window was a great comfort to me. Though she was an old
lady (perhaps because she was so old) she was very tolerant,
and had a kind of feeling for me. She never said a word,
but often gave me a smile when she saw how I had built
myself up, with my books and my basket of work. I did very
little work, I fear--now and then a few stitches when the
spirit moved me, or when I had got well afloat in a dream,
and was more tempted to follow it out than to read my book,
as sometimes happened. At other times, and if the book were
interesting, I used to get through volume after volume
sitting there, paying no attention to anybody. And yet I
did pay a kind of attention. Aunt Mary's old ladies came in
to call, and I heard them talk, though I very seldom
listened; but for all that, if they had anything to say that
was interesting, it is curious how I found it in my mind
afterwards, as if the air had blown it to me. They came and
went, and I had the sensation of their old bonnets gliding
out and in, and their dresses rustling; and now and then had
to jump up and shake hands with some one who knew me, and
asked after my papa and mamma. Then Aunt Mary would give me
a little smile again, and I slipped back to my window. She
never seemed to mind. My mother would not have let me do
it, I know. She would have remembered dozens of things
there were to do. She would have sent me up-stairs to fetch
something which I was quite sure she did not want, or
down-stairs to carry some quite unnecessary message to the
housemaid. She liked to keep me running about. Perhaps
that was one reason why I was so fond of Aunt Mary's
drawing-room, and the deep recess of the window, and the
curtain that fell half over it, and the broad window-seat
where one could collect so many things without being found
fault with for untidiness. Whenever we had anything the
matter with us in these days, we were sent to St Rule's to
get up our strength. And this was my case at the time of
which I am going to speak.

Everybody had said, since ever I learned to
speak, that I was fantastic and fanciful and dreamy, and all
the other words with which a girl who may happen to like
poetry, and to be fond of thinking, is so often made
uncomfortable. People don't know what they mean when they
say fantastic. It sounds like Madge Wildfire or something
of that sort. My mother thought I should always be busy, to
keep nonsense out of my head. But really I was not at all
fond of nonsense. I was rather serious than otherwise. I
would have been no trouble to anybody if I had been left to
myself. It was only that I had a sort of second-sight, and
was conscious of things to which I paid no attention. Even
when reading the most interesting book, the things that were
being talked about blew in to me; and I heard what the
people were saying in the streets as they passed under the
window. Aunt Mary always said I could do two or indeed
three things at once--both read and listen, and see. I am
sure that I did not listen much, and seldom looked out, of
set purpose--as some people do who notice what bonnets the
ladies in the street have on; but I did hear what I couldn't
help hearing, even when I was reading my book, and I did see
all sorts of things, though often for a whole half-hour I
might never lift my eyes.

This does not explain what I said at the
beginning, that there were many discussions about that
window. It was, and still is, the last window in the row,
of the College Library, which is opposite my aunt's house in
the High Street. Yet it is not exactly opposite, but a
little to the west, so that I could see it best from the
left side of my recess. I took it calmly for granted that
it was a window like any other till I first heard the talk
about it which was going on in the drawing-room. "Have you
never made up your mind, Mrs Balcarres," said old Mr
Pitmilly, "whether that window opposite is a window or
no?" He said Mistress Balcarres--and he was always called Mr
Pitmilly, Morton: which was the name of his place.

"I am never sure of it, to tell the
truth," said Aunt Mary, "all these years."

"Bless me!" said one of the old ladies,
"and what window may that be?"

Mr Pitmilly had a way of laughing as he
spoke, which did not please me; but it was true that he was
not perhaps desirous of pleasing me. He said, "Oh, just the
window opposite," with his laugh running through his words;
"our friend can never make up her mind about it, though she
has been living opposite it since----"

"You need never mind the date," said
another; "the Leebrary window! Dear me, what should it be but a
window? up at that height it could not be a door."

"The question is," said my aunt,
"if it is a real window with glass in it, or if it is
merely painted, or if it once was a window, and has been built
up. And the oftener people look at it, the less they are able
to say."

"Let me see this window," said old Lady
Carnbee, who was very active and strong-minded; and then
they all came crowding upon me--three or four old ladies,
very eager, and Mr Pitmilly's white hair appearing over
their heads, and my aunt sitting quiet and smiling behind.

"I mind the window very well," said Lady
Carnbee; "ay: and so do more than me. But in its present
appearance it is just like any other window; but has not
been cleaned, I should say, in the memory of man."

"I see what ye mean," said one of the
others. "It is just a very dead thing without any reflection in it;
but I've seen as bad before."

"Ay, it's dead enough," said another,
"but that's no rule; for these hizzies of women-servants in this
ill age----"

"Nay, the women are well enough," said
the softest voice of all, which was Aunt Mary's. "I will never
let them risk their lives cleaning the outside of mine. And
there are no women-servants in the Old Library: there is
maybe something more in it than that."

They were all pressing into my recess,
pressing upon me, a row of old faces, peering into something
they could not understand. I had a sense in my mind how
curious it was, the wall of old ladies in their old satin
gowns all glazed with age, Lady Carnbee with her lace about
her head. Nobody was looking at me or thinking of me; but I
felt unconsciously the contrast of my youngness to their
oldness, and stared at them as they stared over my head at
the Library window. I had given it no attention up to this
time. I was more taken up with the old ladies than with the
thing they were looking at.

"The framework is all right at least, I can
see that, and pented black----"

"And the panes are pented black too. It's no
window, Mrs Balcarres. It has been filled in, in the days
of the window duties: you will mind, Leddy Carnbee."

"Mind!" said that oldest lady. "I
mind when your mother was marriet, Jeanie: and that's neither the day
nor yesterday. But as for the window, it's just a delusion:
and that is my opinion of the matter, if you ask me."

"There's a great want of light in that muckle
room at the college," said another. "If it was a
window, the Leebrary would have more light."

"One thing is clear," said one of the
younger ones, "it cannot be a window to see through. It may be
filled in or it may be built up, but it is not a window to
give light."

"And who ever heard of a window that was no
to see through?" Lady Carnbee said. I was fascinated by the
look on her face, which was a curious scornful look as of
one who knew more than she chose to say: and then my
wandering fancy was caught by her hand as she held it up,
throwing back the lace that dropped over it. Lady Carnbee's
lace was the chief thing about her--heavy black Spanish lace
with large flowers. Everything she wore was trimmed with
it. A large veil of it hung over her old bonnet. But her
hand coming out of this heavy lace was a curious thing to
see. She had very long fingers, very taper, which had been
much admired in her youth; and her hand was very white, or
rather more than white, pale, bleached, and bloodless, with
large blue veins standing up upon the back; and she wore
some fine rings, among others a big diamond in an ugly old
claw setting. They were too big for her, and were wound
round and round with yellow silk to make them keep on: and
this little cushion of silk, turned brown with long wearing,
had twisted round so that it was more conspicuous than the
jewels; while the big diamond blazed underneath in the
hollow of her hand, like some dangerous thing hiding and
sending out darts of light. The hand, which seemed to come
almost to a point, with this strange ornament underneath,
clutched at my half-terrified imagination. It too seemed to
mean far more than was said. I felt as if it might clutch
me with sharp claws, and the lurking, dazzling creature
bite--with a sting that would go to the heart.

Presently, however, the circle of the old
faces broke up, the old ladies returned to their seats, and
Mr Pitmilly, small but very erect, stood up in the midst of
them, talking with mild authority like a little oracle among
the ladies. Only Lady Carnbee always contradicted the neat,
little, old gentleman. She gesticulated, when she talked,
like a Frenchwoman, and darted forth that hand of hers with
the lace hanging over it, so that I always caught a glimpse
of the lurking diamond. I thought she looked like a witch
among the comfortable little group which gave such attention
to everything Mr Pitmilly said.

"For my part, it is my opinion there is no
window there at all," he said. "It's very like the
thing that's called in scientific language an optical illusion.
It arises generally, if I may use such a word in the
presence of ladies, from a liver that is not just in the
perfitt order and balance that organ demands--and then you
will see things--a blue dog, I remember, was the thing in
one case, and in another----"

"The man has gane gyte," said Lady
Carnbee; "I mind the windows in the Auld Leebrary as long as I mind
anything. Is the Leebrary itself an optical illusion too?"

"Na, na," and "No, no," said
the old ladies; "a blue dogue would be a strange vagary:
but the Library we have all kent from our youth," said one.
"And I mind when the Assemblies were held there one year
when the Town Hall was building," another said.

"It is just a great divert to me," said
Aunt Mary: but what was strange was that she paused there, and
said in a low tone, "now": and then went on again,
"for whoever comes to my house, there are aye discussions about
that window. I have never just made up my mind about it
myself. Sometimes I think it's a case of these wicked
window duties, as you said, Miss Jeanie, when half the
windows in our houses were blocked up to save the tax. And
then, I think, it may be due to that blank kind of building
like the great new buildings on the Earthen Mound in
Edinburgh, where the windows are just ornaments. And then
whiles I am sure I can see the glass shining when the sun
catches it in the afternoon."

"You could so easily satisfy yourself, Mrs
Balcarres, if you were to----"

"Give a laddie a penny to cast a stone, and
see what happens," said Lady Carnbee.

"But I am not sure that I have any desire to
satisfy myself," Aunt Mary said. And then there was a stir
in the room, and I had to come out from my recess and open
the door for the old ladies and see them down-stairs, as
they all went away following one another. Mr Pitmilly gave
his arm to Lady Carnbee, though she was always contradicting
him; and so the tea-party dispersed. Aunt Mary came to the
head of the stairs with her guests in an old-fashioned
gracious way, while I went down with them to see that the
maid was ready at the door. When I came back Aunt Mary was
still standing in the recess looking out. Returning to my
seat she said, with a kind of wistful look, "Well, honey:
and what is your opinion?"

"I have no opinion. I was reading my book
all the time," I said.

"And so you were, honey, and no' very civil;
but all the same I ken well you heard every word we said."

II

IT was a night in June; dinner was long over, and had it
been winter the maids would have been shutting up the house,
and my Aunt Mary preparing to go upstairs to her room. But
it was still clear daylight, that daylight out of which the
sun has been long gone, and which has no longer any rose
reflections, but all has sunk into a pearly neutral tint--a
light which is daylight yet is not day. We had taken a turn
in the garden after dinner, and now we had returned to what
we called our usual occupations. My aunt was reading. The
English post had come in, and she had got her 'Times,' which
was her great diversion. The 'Scotsman' was her morning
reading, but she liked her 'Times' at night.

As for me, I too was at my usual occupation,
which at that time was doing nothing. I had a book as
usual, and was absorbed in it: but I was conscious of all
that was going on all the same. The people strolled along
the broad pavement, making remarks as they passed under the
open window which came up into my story or my dream, and
sometimes made me laugh. The tone and the faint sing-song,
or rather chant, of the accent, which was "a wee
Fifish," was novel to me, and associated with holiday,
and pleasant; and sometimes they said to each other something that was
amusing, and often something that suggested a whole story;
but presently they began to drop off, the footsteps
slackened, the voices died away. It was getting late,
though the clear soft daylight went on and on. All through
the lingering evening, which seemed to consist of
interminable hours, long but not weary, drawn out as if the
spell of the light and the outdoor life might never end, I
had now and then, quite unawares, cast a glance at the
mysterious window which my aunt and her friends had
discussed, as I felt, though I dared not say it even to
myself, rather foolishly. It caught my eye without any
intention on my part, as I paused, as it were, to take
breath, in the flowing and current of undistinguishable
thoughts and things from without and within which carried me
along. First it occurred to me, with a little sensation of
discovery, how absurd to say it was not a window, a living
window, one to see through! Why, then, had they never
seen it, these old folk? I saw as I looked up
suddenly the faint greyness as of visible space within--a
room behind, certainly dim, as it was natural a room should
be on the other side of the street--quite indefinite: yet so
clear that if some one were to come to the window there
would be nothing surprising in it. For certainly there was
a feeling of space behind the panes which these old
half-blind ladies had disputed about whether they were glass
or only fictitious panes marked on the wall. How silly!
when eyes that could see could make it out in a minute. It
was only a greyness at present, but it was unmistakable, a
space that went back into gloom, as every room does when you
look into it across a street. There were no curtains to
show whether it was inhabited or not; but a room--oh, as
distinctly as ever room was! I was pleased with myself, but
said nothing, while Aunt Mary rustled her paper, waiting for
a favourable moment to announce a discovery which settled
her problem at once. Then I was carried away upon the
stream again, and forgot the window, till somebody threw
unawares a word from the outer world, "I'm goin' hame; it'll
soon be dark." Dark! what was the fool thinking of? it
never would be dark if one waited out, wandering in the soft
air for hours longer; and then my eyes, acquiring easily
that new habit, looked across the way again.

Ah, now! nobody indeed had come to the
window; and no light had been lighted, seeing it was still
beautiful to read by--a still, clear, colourless light; but
the room inside had certainly widened. I could see the grey
space and air a little deeper, and a sort of vision, very
dim, of a wall, and something against it; something dark,
with the blackness that a solid article, however
indistinctly seen, takes in the lighter darkness that is
only space--a large, black, dark thing coming out into the
grey. I looked more intently, and made sure it was a piece
of furniture, either a writing-table or perhaps a large
book-case. No doubt it must be the last, since this was
part of the old library. I never visited the old College
Library, but I had seen such places before, and I could well
imagine it to myself. How curious that for all the time
these old people had looked at it, they had never seen this
before!

It was more silent now, and my eyes, I
suppose, had grown dim with gazing, doing my best to make it
out, when suddenly Aunt Mary said, "Will you ring the bell,
my dear? I must have my lamp."

"Your lamp?" I cried, "when it is
still daylight." But then I gave another look at my window, and
perceived with a start that the light had indeed changed:
for now I saw nothing. It was still light, but there was so
much change in the light that my room, with the grey space
and the large shadowy bookcase, had gone out, and I saw them
no more: for even a Scotch night in June, though it looks as
if it would never end, does darken at the last. I had
almost cried out, but checked myself, and rang the bell for
Aunt Mary, and made up my mind I would say nothing till next
morning, when to be sure naturally it would be more clear.

Next morning I rather think I forgot all
about it--or was busy: or was more idle than usual: the two
things meant nearly the same. At all events I thought no
more of the window, though I still sat in my own, opposite
to it, but occupied with some other fancy. Aunt Mary's
visitors came as usual in the afternoon; but their talk was
of other things, and for a day or two nothing at all
happened to bring back my thoughts into this channel. It
might be nearly a week before the subject came back, and
once more it was old Lady Carnbee who set me thinking; not
that she said anything upon that particular theme. But she
was the last of my aunt's afternoon guests to go away, and
when she rose to leave she threw up her hands, with those
lively gesticulations which so many old Scotch ladies have.
"My faith!" said she, "there is that bairn there
still like a dream. Is the creature bewitched, Mary Balcarres? and is
she bound to sit there by night and by day for the rest of
her days? You should mind that there's things about,
uncanny for women of our blood."

I was too much startled at first to recognise
that it was of me she was speaking. She was like a figure
in a picture, with her pale face the colour of ashes, and
the big pattern of the Spanish lace hanging half over it,
and her hand held up, with the big diamond blazing at me
from the inside of her uplifted palm. It was held up in
surprise, but it looked as if it were raised in malediction;
and the diamond threw out darts of light and glared and
twinkled at me. If it had been in its right place it would
not have mattered; but there, in the open of the hand! I
started up, half in terror, half in wrath. And then the old
lady laughed, and her hand dropped. "I've wakened you to
life, and broke the spell," she said, nodding her old head
at me, while the large black silk flowers of the lace waved
and threatened. And she took my arm to go down-stairs,
laughing and bidding me be steady, and no' tremble and shake
like a broken reed. "You should be as steady as a rock at
your age. I was like a young tree," she said, leaning so
heavily that my willowy girlish frame quivered--"I was a
support to virtue, like Pamela, in my time."

"Aunt Mary, Lady Carnbee is a witch!" I
cried, when I came back.

"Is that what you think, honey? well: maybe
she once was," said Aunt Mary, whom nothing surprised.

And it was that night once more after dinner,
and after the post came in, and the 'Times,' that I suddenly
saw the Library window again. I had seen it every day and
noticed nothing; but to-night, still in a little tumult of
mind over Lady Carnbee and her wicked diamond which wished
me harm, and her lace which waved threats and warnings at
me, I looked across the street, and there I saw quite
plainly the room opposite, far more clear than before. I
saw dimly that it must be a large room, and that the big
piece of furniture against the wall was a writing-desk.
That in a moment, when first my eyes rested upon it, was
quite clear: a large old-fashioned escritoire, standing out
into the room: and I knew by the shape of it that it had a
great many pigeon-holes and little drawers in the back, and
a large table for writing. There was one just like it in my
father's library at home. It was such a surprise to see it
all so clearly that I closed my eyes, for the moment almost
giddy, wondering how papa's desk could have come here--and
then when I reminded myself that this was nonsense, and that
there were many such writing-tables besides papa's, and
looked again--lo! it had all become quite vague and
indistinct as it was at first; and I saw nothing but the
blank window, of which the old ladies could never be certain
whether it was filled up to avoid the window-tax, or whether
it had ever been a window at all.

This occupied my mind very much, and yet I
did not say anything to Aunt Mary. For one thing, I rarely
saw anything at all in the early part of the day; but then
that is natural: you can never see into a place from
outside, whether it is an empty room or a looking-glass, or
people's eyes, or anything else that is mysterious, in the
day. It has, I suppose, something to do with the light.
But in the evening in June in Scotland--then is the time to
see. For it is daylight, yet it is not day, and there is a
quality in it which I cannot describe, it is so clear, as if
every object was a reflection of itself.

I used to see more and more of the room as
the days went on. The large escritoire stood out more and
more into the space: with sometimes white glimmering things,
which looked like papers, lying on it: and once or twice I
was sure I saw a pile of books on the floor close to the
writing-table, as if they had gilding upon them in broken
specks, like old books. It was always about the time when
the lads in the street began to call to each other that they
were going home, and sometimes a shriller voice would come
from one of the doors, bidding somebody to "cry upon the
laddies" to come back to their suppers. That was always the
time I saw best, though it was close upon the moment when
the veil seemed to fall and the clear radiance became less
living, and all the sounds died out of the street, and Aunt
Mary said in her soft voice, "Honey! will you ring for the
lamp?" She said honey as people say darling: and I think it
is a prettier word.

Then finally, while I sat one evening with my
book in my hand, looking straight across the street, not
distracted by anything, I saw a little movement within. It
was not any one visible--but everybody must know what it is
to see the stir in the air, the little disturbance--you
cannot tell what it is, but that it indicates some one
there, even though you can see no one. Perhaps it is a
shadow making just one flicker in the still place. You may
look at an empty room and the furniture in it for hours, and
then suddenly there will be the flicker, and you know that
something has come into it. It might only be a dog or a
cat; it might be, if that were possible, a bird flying
across; but it is some one, something living, which is so
different, so completely different, in a moment from the
things that are not living. It seemed to strike quite
through me, and I gave a little cry. Then Aunt Mary stirred
a little, and put down the huge newspaper that almost
covered her from sight, and said, "What is it, honey?"
I
cried "Nothing," with a little gasp, quickly, for I did
not
want to be disturbed just at this moment when somebody was
coming! But I suppose she was not satisfied, for she got up
and stood behind to see what it was, putting her hand on my
shoulder. It was the softest touch in the world, but I
could have flung it off angrily: for that moment everything
was still again, and the place grew grey and I saw no more.

"Nothing," I repeated, but I was so
vexed I could have cried. "I told you it was nothing, Aunt Mary.
Don't you believe me, that you come to look--and spoil it
all!"

I did not mean of course to say these last
words; they were forced out of me. I was so much annoyed to
see it all melt away like a dream: for it was no dream, but
as real as--as real as--myself or anything I ever saw.

She gave my shoulder a little pat with her
hand. "Honey," she said, "were you looking at
something?
Is't that? is't that?" "Is it what?" I wanted to
say,
shaking off her hand, but something in me stopped me: for I
said nothing at all, and she went quietly back to her place.
I suppose she must have rung the bell herself, for
immediately I felt the soft flood of the light behind me,
and the evening outside dimmed down, as it did every night,
and I saw nothing more.

It was next day, I think, in the afternoon
that I spoke. It was brought on by something she said about
her fine work. "I get a mist before my eyes," she
said; "you will have to learn my old lace stitches, honey--for I
soon will not see to draw the threads."

"Oh, I hope you will keep your sight," I
cried, without thinking what I was saying. I was then young
and very matter-of-fact. I had not found out that one may
mean something, yet not half or a hundredth part of what one
seems to mean: and even then probably hoping to be
contradicted if it is anyhow against one's self.

"My sight!" she said, looking up at me
with a
look that was almost angry; "there is no question of losing
my sight--on the contrary, my eyes are very strong. I may
not see to draw fine threads, but I see at a distance as
well as ever I did--as well as you do."

"I did not mean any harm, Aunt Mary," I
said. "I thought you said----But how can your sight be as good as
ever when you are in doubt about that window? I can see
into the room as clear as----" My voice wavered, for I had
just looked up and across the street, and I could have sworn
that there was no window at all, but only a false image of
one painted on the wall.

"Ah!" she said, with a little tone of
keenness and of surprise: and she half rose up, throwing
down her work hastily, as if she meant to come to me: then,
perhaps seeing the bewildered look on my face, she paused
and hesitated--"Ay, honey!" she said, "have you
got so far ben as that?"

What did she mean? Of course I knew all the
old Scotch phrases as well as I knew myself; but it is a
comfort to take refuge in a little ignorance, and I know I
pretended not to understand whenever I was put out. "I
don't know what you mean by 'far ben,'" I cried out, very
impatient. I don't know what might have followed, but some
one just then came to call, and she could only give me a
look before she went forward, putting out her hand to her
visitor. It was a very soft look, but anxious, and as if
she did not know what to do: and she shook her head a very
little, and I thought, though there was a smile on her face,
there was something wet about her eyes. I retired into my
recess, and nothing more was said.

But it was very tantalising that it should
fluctuate so; for sometimes I saw that room quite plain and
clear--quite as clear as I could see papa's library, for
example, when I shut my eyes. I compared it naturally to my
father's study, because of the shape of the writing-table,
which, as I tell you, was the same as his. At times I saw
the papers on the table quite plain, just as I had seen his
papers many a day. And the little pile of books on the
floor at the foot--not ranged regularly in order, but put
down one above the other, with all their angles going
different ways, and a speck of the old gilding shining here
and there. And then again at other times I saw nothing,
absolutely nothing, and was no better than the old ladies
who had peered over my head, drawing their eyelids together,
and arguing that the window had been shut up because of the
old long-abolished window tax, or else that it had never
been a window at all. It annoyed me very much at those dull
moments to feel that I too puckered up my eyelids and saw no
better than they.

Aunt Mary's old ladies came and went day
after day while June went on. I was to go back in July, and
I felt that I should be very unwilling indeed to leave until
I had quite cleared up--as I was indeed in the way of
doing--the mystery of that window which changed so strangely
and appeared quite a different thing, not only to different
people, but to the same eyes at different times. Of course
I said to myself it must simply be an effect of the light.
And yet I did not quite like that explanation either, but
would have been better pleased to make out to myself that it
was some superiority in me which made it so clear to me, if
it were only the great superiority of young eyes over
old--though that was not quite enough to satisfy me, seeing
it was a superiority which I shared with every little lass
and lad in the street. I rather wanted, I believe, to think
that there was some particular insight in me which gave
clearness to my sight--which was a most impertinent
assumption, but really did not mean half the harm it seems
to mean when it is put down here in black and white. I had
several times again, however, seen the room quite plain, and
made out that it was a large room, with a great picture in a
dim gilded frame hanging on the farther wall, and many other
pieces of solid furniture making a blackness here and there,
besides the great escritoire against the wall, which had
evidently been placed near the window for the sake of the
light. One thing became visible to me after another, till I
almost thought I should end by being able to read the old
lettering on one of the big volumes which projected from the
others and caught the light; but this was all preliminary to
the great event which happened about Midsummer Day--the day
of St John, which was once so much thought of as a festival,
but now means nothing at all in Scotland any more than any
other of the saints' days: which I shall always think a
great pity and loss to Scotland, whatever Aunt Mary may say.

III

IT was about midsummer, I cannot say exactly to a day
when, but near that time, when the great event happened. I
had grown very well acquainted by this time with that large
dim room. Not only the escritoire, which was very plain to
me now, with the papers upon it, and the books at its foot,
but the great picture that hung against the farther wall,
and various other shadowy pieces of furniture, especially a
chair which one evening I saw had been moved into the space
before the escritoire,--a little change which made my heart
beat, for it spoke so distinctly of some one who must have
been there, the some one who had already made me start, two
or three times before, by some vague shadow of him or thrill
of him which made a sort of movement in the silent space: a
movement which made me sure that next minute I must see
something or hear something which would explain the
whole--if it were not that something always happened outside
to stop it, at the very moment of its accomplishment. I had
no warning this time of movement or shadow. I had been
looking into the room very attentively a little while
before, and had made out everything almost clearer than
ever; and then had bent my attention again on my book, and
read a chapter or two at a most exciting period of the
story: and consequently had quite left St Rule's, and the
High Street, and the College Library, and was really in a
South American forest, almost throttled by the flowery
creepers, and treading softly lest I should put my foot on a
scorpion or a dangerous snake. At this moment something
suddenly calling my attention to the outside, I looked
across, and then, with a start, sprang up, for I could not
contain myself. I don't know what I said, but enough to
startle the people in the room, one of whom was old Mr
Pitmilly. They all looked round upon me to ask what was the
matter. And when I gave my usual answer of "Nothing,"
sitting down again shamefaced but very much excited, Mr
Pitmilly got up and came forward, and looked out, apparently
to see what was the cause. He saw nothing, for he went back
again, and I could hear him telling Aunt Mary not to be
alarmed, for Missy had fallen into a doze with the heat, and
had startled herself waking up, at which they all laughed:
another time I could have killed him for his impertinence,
but my mind was too much taken up now to pay any attention.
My head was throbbing and my heart beating. I was in such
high excitement, however, that to restrain myself
completely, to be perfectly silent, was more easy to me then
than at any other time of my life. I waited until the old
gentleman had taken his seat again, and then I looked back.
Yes, there he was! I had not been deceived. I knew then,
when I looked across, that this was what I had been looking
for all the time--that I had known he was there, and had
been waiting for him, every time there was that flicker of
movement in the room--him and no one else. And there at
last, just as I had expected, he was. I don't know that in
reality I ever had expected him, or any one: but this was
what I felt when, suddenly looking into that curious dim
room, I saw him there.

He was sitting in the chair, which he must
have placed for himself, or which some one else in the dead
of night when nobody was looking must have set for him, in
front of the escritoire--with the back of his head towards
me, writing. The light fell upon him from the left hand,
and therefore upon his shoulders and the side of his head,
which, however, was too much turned away to show anything of
his face. Oh, how strange that there should be some one
staring at him as I was doing, and he never to turn his
head, to make a movement! If any one stood and looked at
me, were I in the soundest sleep that ever was, I would
wake, I would jump up, I would feel it through everything.
But there he sat and never moved. You are not to suppose,
though I said the light fell upon him from the left hand,
that there was very much light. There never is in a room
you are looking into like that across the street; but there
was enough to see him by--the outline of his figure dark and
solid, seated in the chair, and the fairness of his head
visible faintly, a clear spot against the dimness. I saw
this outline against the dim gilding of the frame of the
large picture which hung on the farther wall.

I sat all the time the visitors were there,
in a sort of rapture, gazing at this figure. I knew no
reason why I should be so much moved. In an ordinary way,
to see a student at an opposite window quietly doing his
work might have interested me a little, but certainly it
would not have moved me in any such way. It is always
interesting to have a glimpse like this of an unknown
life--to see so much and yet know so little, and to wonder,
perhaps, what the man is doing, and why he never turns his
head. One would go to the window--but not too close, lest
he should see you and think you were spying upon him--and
one would ask, Is he still there? is he writing, writing
always? I wonder what he is writing! And it would be a
great amusement: but no more. This was not my feeling at
all in the present case. It was a sort of breathless watch,
an absorption. I did not feel that I had eyes for anything
else, or any room in my mind for another thought. I no
longer heard, as I generally did, the stories and the wise
remarks (or foolish) of Aunt Mary's old ladies or Mr
Pitmilly. I heard only a murmur behind me, the interchange
of voices, one softer, one sharper; but it was not as in the
time when I sat reading and heard every word, till the story
in my book, and the stories they were telling (what they
said almost always shaped into stories), were all mingled
into each other, and the hero in the novel became somehow
the hero (or more likely heroine) of them all. But I took
no notice of what they were saying now. And it was not that
there was anything very interesting to look at, except the
fact that he was there. He did nothing to keep up the
absorption of my thoughts. He moved just so much as a man
will do when he is very busily writing, thinking of nothing
else. There was a faint turn of his head as he went from
one side to another of the page he was writing; but it
appeared to be a long long page which never wanted turning.
Just a little inclination when he was at the end of the
line, outward, and then a little inclination inward when he
began the next. That was little enough to keep one gazing.
But I suppose it was the gradual course of events leading up
to this, the finding out of one thing after another as the
eyes got accustomed to the vague light: first the room
itself, and then the writing-table, and then the other
furniture, and last of all the human inhabitant who gave it
all meaning. This was all so interesting that it was like a
country which one had discovered. And then the
extraordinary blindness of the other people who disputed
among themselves whether it was a window at all! I did not,
I am sure, wish to be disrespectful, and I was very fond of
my Aunt Mary, and I liked Mr Pitmilly well enough, and I was
afraid of Lady Carnbee. But yet to think of the--I know I
ought not to say stupidity--the blindness of them, the
foolishness, the insensibility! discussing it as if a thing
that your eyes could see was a thing to discuss! It would
have been unkind to think it was because they were old and
their faculties dimmed. It is so sad to think that the
faculties grow dim, that such a woman as my Aunt Mary should
fail in seeing, or hearing, or feeling, that I would not
have dwelt on it for a moment, it would have seemed so
cruel! And then such a clever old lady as Lady Carnbee, who
could see through a millstone, people said--and Mr Pitmilly,
such an old man of the world. It did indeed bring tears to
my eyes to think that all those clever people, solely by
reason of being no longer young as I was, should have the
simplest things shut out from them; and for all their wisdom
and their knowledge be unable to see what a girl like me
could see so easily. I was too much grieved for them to
dwell upon that thought, and half ashamed, though perhaps
half proud too, to be so much better off than they.

All those thoughts flitted through my mind as
I sat and gazed across the street. And I felt there was so
much going on in that room across the street! He was so
absorbed in his writing, never looked up, never paused for a
word, never turned round in his chair, or got up and walked
about the room as my father did. Papa is a great writer,
everybody says: but he would have come to the window and
looked out, he would have drummed with his fingers on the
pane, he would have watched a fly and helped it over a
difficulty, and played with the fringe of the curtain, and
done a dozen other nice, pleasant, foolish things, till the
next sentence took shape. "My dear, I am waiting for a
word," he would say to my mother when she looked at him,
with a question why he was so idle, in her eyes; and then he
would laugh, and go back again to his writing-table. But He
over there never stopped at all. It was like a fascination.
I could not take my eyes from him and that little scarcely
perceptible movement he made, turning his head. I trembled
with impatience to see him turn the page, or perhaps throw
down his finished sheet on the floor, as somebody looking
into a window like me once saw Sir Walter do, sheet after
sheet. I should have cried out if this Unknown had done
that. I should not have been able to help myself, whoever
had been present; and gradually I got into such a state of
suspense waiting for it to be done that my head grew hot and
my hands cold. And then, just when there was a little
movement of his elbow, as if he were about to do this, to be
called away by Aunt Mary to see Lady Carnbee to the door! I
believe I did not hear her till she had called me three
times, and then I stumbled up, all flushed and hot, and
nearly crying. When I came out from the recess to give the
old lady my arm (Mr Pitmilly had gone away some time
before), she put up her hand and stroked my cheek. "What
ails the bairn?" she said; "she's fevered. You must
not let her sit her lane in the window, Mary Balcarres. You and me
know what comes of that." Her old fingers had a strange
touch, cold like something not living, and I felt that
dreadful diamond sting me on the cheek.

I do not say that this was not just a part of
my excitement and suspense; and I know it is enough to make
any one laugh when the excitement was all about an unknown
man writing in a room on the other side of the way, and my
impatience because he never came to an end of the page. If
you think I was not quite as well aware of this as any one
could be! but the worst was that this dreadful old lady felt
my heart beating against her arm that was within mine. "You
are just in a dream," she said to me, with her old voice
close at my ear as we went down-stairs. "I don't know who
it is about, but it's bound to be some man that is not worth
it. If you were wise you would think of him no more."

"I am thinking of no man!" I said, half
crying. "It is very unkind and dreadful of you to say so,
Lady Carnbee. I never thought of----any man, in all my
life!" I cried in a passion of indignation. The old lady
clung tighter to my arm, and pressed it to her, not
unkindly.

"Poor little bird," she said, "how
it's strugglin' and flutterin'! I'm not saying but what it's
more dangerous when it's all for a dream."

She was not at all unkind; but I was very
angry and excited, and would scarcely shake that old pale
hand which she put out to me from her carriage window when I
had helped her in. I was angry with her, and I was afraid
of the diamond, which looked up from under her finger as if
it saw through and through me; and whether you believe me or
not, I am certain that it stung me again--a sharp malignant
prick, oh full of meaning! She never wore gloves, but only
black lace mittens, through which that horrible diamond
gleamed.

I ran up-stairs--she had been the last to go
and Aunt Mary too had gone to get ready for dinner, for it
was late. I hurried to my place, and looked across, with my
heart beating more than ever. I made quite sure I should
see the finished sheet lying white upon the floor. But what
I gazed at was only the dim blank of that window which they
said was no window. The light had changed in some wonderful
way during that five minutes I had been gone, and there was
nothing, nothing, not a reflection, not a glimmer. It
looked exactly as they all said, the blank form of a window
painted on the wall. It was too much: I sat down in my
excitement and cried as if my heart would break. I felt
that they had done something to it, that it was not natural,
that I could not bear their unkindness--even Aunt Mary.
They thought it not good for me! not good for me! and they
had done something--even Aunt Mary herself--and that wicked
diamond that hid itself in Lady Carnbee's hand. Of course I
knew all this was ridiculous as well as you could tell me;
but I was exasperated by the disappointment and the sudden
stop to all my excited feelings, and I could not bear it.
It was more strong than I.

I was late for dinner, and naturally there
were some traces in my eyes that I had been crying when I
came into the full light in the dining-room, where Aunt Mary
could look at me at her pleasure, and I could not run away.
She said, "Honey, you have been shedding tears. I'm loth,
loth that a bairn of your mother's should be made to shed
tears in my house."

"I have not been made to shed tears,"
cried I; and then, to save myself another fit of crying, I burst
out laughing and said, "I am afraid of that dreadful diamond
on old Lady Carnbee's hand. It bites--I am sure it bites!
Aunt Mary, look here."

"You foolish lassie," Aunt Mary said;
but she looked at my cheek under the light of the lamp, and then she
gave it a little pat with her soft hand. "Go away with you,
you silly bairn. There is no bite; but a flushed cheek, my
honey, and a wet eye. You must just read out my paper to me
after dinner when the post is in: and we'll have no more
thinking and no more dreaming for tonight."

"Yes, Aunt Mary," said I. But I knew
what would happen; for when she opens up her 'Times,' all full of
the news of the world, and the speeches and things which she
takes an interest in, though I cannot tell why--she forgets.
And as I kept very quiet and made not a sound, she forgot
to-night what she had said, and the curtain hung a little
more over me than usual, and I sat down in my recess as if I
had been a hundred miles away. And my heart gave a great
jump, as if it would have come out of my breast; for he was
there. But not as he had been in the morning--I suppose the
light, perhaps, was not good enough to go on with his work
without a lamp or candles--for he had turned away from the
table and was fronting the window, sitting leaning back in
his chair, and turning his head to me. Not to me--he knew
nothing about me. I thought he was not looking at anything;
but with his face turned my way. My heart was in my mouth:
it was so unexpected, so strange! though why it should have
seemed strange I know not, for there was no communication
between him and me that it should have moved me; and what
could be more natural than that a man, wearied of his work,
and feeling the want perhaps of more light, and yet that it
was not dark enough to light a lamp, should turn round in
his own chair, and rest a little, and think--perhaps of
nothing at all? Papa always says he is thinking of nothing
at all. He says things blow through his mind as if the
doors were open, and he has no responsibility. What sort of
things were blowing through this man's mind? or was he
thinking, still thinking, of what he had been writing and
going on with it still? The thing that troubled me most was
that I could not make out his face. It is very difficult to
do so when you see a person only through two windows, your
own and his. I wanted very much to recognise him afterwards
if I should chance to meet him in the street. If he had
only stood up and moved about the room, I should have made
out the rest of his figure, and then I should have known him
again; or if he had only come to the window (as papa always
did), then I should have seen his face clearly enough to
have recognised him. But, to be sure, he did not see any
need to do anything in order that I might recognise him, for
he did not know I existed; and probably if he had known I
was watching him, he would have been annoyed and gone away.

But he was as immovable there facing the
window as he had been seated at the desk. Sometimes he made
a little faint stir with a hand or a foot, and I held my
breath, hoping he was about to rise from his chair--but he
never did it. And with all the efforts I made I could not
be sure of his face. I puckered my eyelids together as old
Miss Jeanie did who was shortsighted, and I put my hands on
each side of my face to concentrate the light on him: but it
was all in vain. Either the face changed as I sat staring,
or else it was the light that was not good enough, or I
don't know what it was. His hair seemed to me
light--certainly there was no dark line about his head, as
there would have been had it been very dark--and I saw,
where it came across the old gilt frame on the wall behind,
that it must be fair: and I am almost sure he had no beard.
Indeed I am sure that he had no beard, for the outline of
his face was distinct enough; and the daylight was still
quite clear out of doors, so that I recognised perfectly a
baker's boy who was on the pavement opposite, and whom I
should have known again whenever I had met him: as if it was
of the least importance to recognise a baker's boy! There
was one thing, however, rather curious about this boy. He
had been throwing stones at something or somebody. In St
Rule's they have a great way of throwing stones at each
other, and I suppose there had been a battle. I suppose
also that he had one stone in his hand left over from the
battle, and his roving eye took in all the incidents of the
street to judge where he could throw it with most effect and
mischief. But apparently he found nothing worthy of it in
the street, for he suddenly turned round with a flick under
his leg to show his cleverness, and aimed it straight at the
window. I remarked without remarking that it struck with a
hard sound and without any breaking of glass, and fell
straight down on the pavement. But I took no notice of this
even in my mind, so intently was I watching the figure
within, which moved not nor took the slightest notice, and
remained just as dimly clear, as perfectly seen, yet as
indistinguishable, as before. And then the light began to
fail a little, not diminishing the prospect within, but
making it still less distinct than it had been.

Then I jumped up, feeling Aunt Mary's hand
upon my shoulder. "Honey," she said, "I asked you
twice to ring the bell; but you did not hear me."

"Oh, Aunt Mary!" I cried in great
penitence, but turning again to the window in spite of myself.

"You must come away from there: you must come
away from there," she said, almost as if she were angry: and
then her soft voice grew softer, and she gave me a kiss:
"never mind about the lamp, honey; I have rung myself, and
it is coming; but, silly bairn, you must not aye be
dreaming--your little head will turn."

All the answer I made, for I could scarcely
speak, was to give a little wave with my hand to the window
on the other side of the street.

She stood there patting me softly on the
shoulder for a whole minute or more, murmuring something
that sounded like, "She must go away, she must go
away."
Then she said, always with her hand soft on my shoulder,
"Like a dream when one awaketh." And when I looked
again, I saw the blank of an opaque surface and nothing more.

Aunt Mary asked me no more questions. She
made me come into the room and sit in the light and read
something to her. But I did not know what I was reading,
for there suddenly came into my mind and took possession of
it, the thud of the stone upon the window, and its descent
straight down, as if from some hard substance that threw it
off: though I had myself seen it strike upon the glass of
the panes across the way.

IV

I AM afraid I continued in a state of great exaltation
and commotion of mind for some time. I used to hurry
through the day till the evening came, when I could watch my
neighbour through the window opposite. I did not talk much
to any one, and I never said a word about my own questions
and wonderings. I wondered who he was, what he was doing,
and why he never came till the evening (or very rarely); and
I also wondered much to what house the room belonged in
which he sat. It seemed to form a portion of the old
College Library, as I have often said. The window was one
of the line of windows which I understood lighted the large
hall; but whether this room belonged to the library itself,
or how its occupant gained access to it, I could not tell.
I made up my mind that it must open out of the hall, and
that the gentleman must be the Librarian or one of his
assistants, perhaps kept busy all the day in his official
duties, and only able to get to his desk and do his own
private work in the evening. One has heard of so many
things like that--a man who had to take up some other kind
of work for his living, and then when his leisure-time came,
gave it all up to something he really loved--some study or
some book he was writing. My father himself at one time had
been like that. He had been in the Treasury all day, and
then in the evening wrote his books, which made him famous.
His daughter, however little she might know of other things,
could not but know that! But it discouraged me very much
when somebody pointed out to me one day in the street an old
gentleman who wore a wig and took a great deal of snuff, and
said, That's the Librarian of the old College. It gave me a
great shock for a moment; but then I remembered that an old
gentleman has generally assistants, and that it must be one
of them.

Gradually I became quite sure of this. There
was another small window above, which twinkled very much
when the sun shone, and looked a very kindly bright little
window, above that dullness of the other which hid so much.
I made up my mind this was the window of his other room, and
that these two chambers at the end of the beautiful hall
were really beautiful for him to live in, so near all the
books, and so retired and quiet, that nobody knew of them.
What a fine thing for him! and you could see what use he
made of his good fortune as he sat there, so constant at his
writing for hours together. Was it a book he was writing,
or could it be perhaps Poems? This was a thought which made
my heart beat; but I concluded with much regret that it
could not be Poems, because no one could possibly write
Poems like that, straight off, without pausing for a word or
a rhyme. Had they been Poems he must have risen up, he must
have paced about the room or come to the window as papa
did--not that papa wrote Poems: he always said, "I am not
worthy even to speak of such prevailing mysteries," shaking
his head--which gave me a wonderful admiration and almost
awe of a Poet, who was thus much greater even than papa.
But I could not believe that a poet could have kept still
for hours and hours like that. What could it be then?
perhaps it was history; that is a great thing to work at,
but you would not perhaps need to move nor to stride up and
down, or look out upon the sky and the wonderful light.

He did move now and then, however, though he
never came to the window. Sometimes, as I have said, he
would turn round in his chair and turn his face towards it,
and sit there for a long time musing when the light had
begun to fail, and the world was full of that strange day
which was night, that light without colour, in which
everything was so clearly visible, and there were no
shadows. "It was between the night and the day, when the
fairy folk have power." This was the after-light of the
wonderful, long, long summer evening, the light without
shadows. It had a spell in it, and sometimes it made me
afraid: and all manner of strange thoughts seemed to come
in, and I always felt that if only we had a little more
vision in our eyes we might see beautiful folk walking about
in it, who were not of our world. I thought most likely he
saw them, from the way he sat there looking out: and this
made my heart expand with the most curious sensation, as if
of pride that, though I could not see, he did, and did not
even require to come to the window, as I did, sitting close
in the depth of the recess, with my eyes upon him, and
almost seeing things through his eyes.

I was so much absorbed in these thoughts and
in watching him every evening--for now he never missed an
evening, but was always there--that people began to remark
that I was looking pale and that I could not be well, for I
paid no attention when they talked to me, and did not care
to go out, nor to join the other girls for their tennis, nor
to do anything that others did; and some said to Aunt Mary
that I was quickly losing all the ground I had gained, and
that she could never send me back to my mother with a white
face like that. Aunt Mary had begun to look at me anxiously
for some time before that, and, I am sure, held secret
consultations over me, sometimes with the doctor, and
sometimes with her old ladies, who thought they knew more
about young girls than even the doctors. And I could hear
them saying to her that I wanted diversion, that I must be
diverted, and that she must take me out more, and give a
party, and that when the summer visitors began to come there
would perhaps be a ball or two, or Lady Carnbee would get up
a picnic. "And there's my young lord coming home,"
said the old lady whom they called Miss Jeanie, "and I never
knew the young lassie yet that would not cock up her bonnet at the
sight of a young lord."

But Aunt Mary shook her head. "I would not
lippen much to the young lord," she said. "His mother
is sore set upon siller for him; and my poor bit honey has no
fortune to speak of. No, we must not fly so high as the
young lord; but I will gladly take her about the country to
see the old castles and towers. It will perhaps rouse her
up a little."

"And if that does not answer we must think of
something else," the old lady said.

I heard them perhaps that day because they
were talking of me, which is always so effective a way of
making you hear--for latterly I had not been paying any
attention to what they were saying; and I thought to myself
how little they knew, and how little I cared about even the
old castles and curious houses, having something else in my
mind. But just about that time Mr Pitmilly came in, who was
always a friend to me, and, when he heard them talking, he
managed to stop them and turn the conversation into another
channel. And after a while, when the ladies were gone away,
he came up to my recess, and gave a glance right over my
head. And then he asked my Aunt Mary if ever she had
settled her question about the window opposite, "that you
thought was a window sometimes, and then not a window, and
many curious things," the old gentleman said.

My Aunt Mary gave me another very wistful
look; and then she said, "Indeed, Mr Pitmilly, we are just
where we were, and I am quite as unsettled as ever; and I
think my niece she has taken up my views, for I see her many
a time looking across and wondering, and I am not clear now
what her opinion is."

"My opinion!" I said, "Aunt
Mary." I could not help being a little scornful, as one is
when one is very young. "I have no opinion. There is not
only a window but there is a room, and I could show you " I
was going to say, "show you the gentleman who sits and writes
in it," but I stopped, not knowing what they might say, and
looked from one to another. "I could tell you--all the furniture that
is in it," I said. And then I felt something like a flame
that went over my face, and that all at once my cheeks were
burning. I thought they gave a little glance at each other,
but that may have been folly. "There is a great picture, in
a big dim frame," I said, feeling a little breathless,
"on the wall opposite the window "

"Is there so?" said Mr Pitmilly, with a
little laugh. And he said, "Now I will tell you what we'll
do. You know that there is a conversation party, or
whatever they call it, in the big room to-night, and it will
be all open and lighted up. And it is a handsome room, and
two-three things well worth looking at. I will just step
along after we have all got our dinner, and take you over to
the pairty, madam--Missy and you----"

"Dear me!" said Aunt Mary. "I have
not gone to a pairty for more years than I would like to say--and
never once to the Library Hall." Then she gave a little
shiver, and said quite low, "I could not go there."

"Then you will just begin again to-night,
madam," said Mr Pitmilly, taking no notice of this,
"and a proud man will I be leading in Mistress Balcarres that was
once the pride of the ball!"

"Ah, once!" said Aunt Mary, with a low
little laugh and then a sigh. "And we'll not say how long
ago;" and after that she made a pause, looking always at me: and
then she said, "I accept your offer, and we'll put on our
braws; and I hope you will have no occasion to think shame
of us. But why not take your dinner here?"

That was how it was settled, and the old
gentleman went away to dress, looking quite pleased. But I
came to Aunt Mary as soon as he was gone, and besought her
not to make me go. "I like the long bonnie night and the
light that lasts so long. And I cannot bear to dress up and
go out, wasting it all in a stupid party. I hate parties,
Aunt Mary!" I cried, "and I would far rather stay
here."

"My honey," she said, taking both my
hands, "I know it will maybe be a blow to you, but it's better
so."

"How could it be a blow to me?" I cried;
"but I would far rather not go."

"You'll just go with me, honey, just this
once: it is not often I go out. You will go with me this
one night, just this one night, my honey sweet."

I am sure there were tears in Aunt Mary's
eyes, and she kissed me between the words. There was
nothing more that I could say; but how I grudged the
evening! A mere party, a conversazione (when all the
College was away, too, and nobody to make conversation!),
instead of my enchanted hour at my window and the soft
strange light, and the dim face looking out, which kept me
wondering and wondering what was he thinking of, what was he
looking for, who was he? all one wonder and mystery and
question, through the long, long, slowly fading night!

It occurred to me, however, when I was
dressing--though I was so sure that he would prefer his
solitude to everything--that he might perhaps, it was just
possible, be there. And when I thought of that, I took out
my white frock though Janet had laid out my blue one--and my
little pearl necklace which I had thought was too good to
wear. They were not very large pearls, but they were real
pearls, and very even and lustrous though they were small;
and though I did not think much of my appearance then, there
must have been something about me--pale as I was but apt to
colour in a moment, with my dress so white, and my pearls so
white, and my hair all shadowy perhaps, that was pleasant to
look at: for even old Mr Pitmilly had a strange look in his
eyes, as if he was not only pleased but sorry too, perhaps
thinking me a creature that would have troubles in this
life, though I was so young and knew them not. And when
Aunt Mary looked at me, there was a little quiver about her
mouth. She herself had on her pretty lace and her white
hair very nicely done, and looking her best. As for Mr
Pitmilly, he had a beautiful fine French cambrie frill to
his shirt, plaited in the most minute plaits, and with a
diamond pin in it which sparkled as much as Lady Carnbee's
ring; but this was a fine frank kindly stone, that looked
you straight in the face and sparkled, with the light
dancing in it as if it were pleased to see you, and to be
shining on that old gentleman's honest and faithful breast:
for he had been one of Aunt Mary's lovers in their early
days, and still thought there was nobody like her in the
world.

I had got into quite a happy commotion of
mind by the time we set out across the street in the soft
light of the evening to the Library Hall. Perhaps, after
all, I should see him, and see the room which I was so well
acquainted with, and find out why he sat there so constantly
and never was seen abroad. I thought I might even hear what
he was working at, which would be such a pleasant thing to
tell papa when I went home. A friend of mine at St
Rule's--oh, far, far more busy than you ever were,
papa!--and then my father would laugh as he always did, and
say he was but an idler and never busy at all.

The room was all light and bright, flowers
wherever flowers could be, and the long lines of the books
that went along the walls on each side, lighting up wherever
there was a line of gilding or an ornament, with a little
response. It dazzled me at first all that light: but I was
very eager, though I kept very quiet, looking round to see
if perhaps in any corner, in the middle of any group, he
would be there. I did not expect to see him among the
ladies. He would not be with them,--he was too studious,
too silent: but, perhaps among that circle of grey heads at
the upper end of the room--perhaps----

No: I am not sure that it was not half a
pleasure to me to make quite sure that there was not one
whom I could take for him, who was at all like my vague
image of him. No: it was absurd to think that he would be
here, amid all that sound of voices, under the glare of that
light. I felt a little proud to think that he was in his
room as usual, doing his work, or thinking so deeply over
it, as when he turned round in his chair with his face to
the light.

I was thus getting a little composed and
quiet in my mind, for now that the expectation of seeing him
was over, though it was a disappointment, it was a
satisfaction too--when Mr Pitmilly came up to me, holding
out his arm. "Now," he said, "I am going to take
you to see the curiosities." I thought to myself that after
I had seen them and spoken to everybody I knew, Aunt Mary would let me
go home, so I went very willingly, though I did not care for
the curiosities. Something, however, struck me strangely as
we walked up the room. It was the air, rather fresh and
strong, from an open window at the east end of the hall.
How should there be a window there? I hardly saw what it
meant for the first moment, but it blew in my face as if
there was some meaning in it, and I felt very uneasy without
seeing why.

Then there was another thing that startled
me. On that side of the wall which was to the street there
seemed no windows at all. A long line of bookcases filled
it from end to end. I could not see what that meant either,
but it confused me. I was altogether confused. I felt as
if I was in a strange country, not knowing where I was
going, not knowing what I might find out next. If there
were no windows on the wall to the street, where was my
window? My heart, which had been jumping up and calming
down again all this time, gave a great leap at this, as if
it would have come out of me--but I did not know what it
could mean.

Then we stopped before a glass case, and Mr
Pitmilly showed me some things in it. I could not pay much
attention to them. My head was going round and round. I
heard his voice going on, and then myself speaking with a
queer sound that was hollow in my ears; but I did not know
what I was saying or what he was saying. Then he took me to
the very end of the room, the east end, saying something
that I caught--that I was pale, that the air would do me
good. The air was blowing full on me, lifting the lace of
my dress, lifting my hair, almost chilly. The window opened
into the pale daylight, into the little lane that ran by the
end of the building. Mr Pitmilly went on talking, but I
could not make out a word he said. Then I heard my own
voice, speaking through it, though I did not seem to be
aware that I was speaking. "Where is my window?--where,
then, is my window?" I seemed to be saying, and I turned
right round, dragging him with me, still holding his arm.
As I did this my eye fell upon something at last which I
knew. It was a large picture in a broad frame, hanging
against the farther wall.

What did it mean? Oh, what did it mean? I
turned round again to the open window at the east end, and
to the daylight, the strange light without any shadow, that
was all round about this lighted hall, holding it like a
bubble that would burst, like something that was not real.
The real place was the room I knew, in which that picture
was hanging, where the writing-table was, and where he sat
with his face to the light. But where was the light and the
window through which it came? I think my senses must have
left me. I went up to the picture which I knew, and then I
walked straight across the room, always dragging Mr
Pitmilly, whose face was pale, but who did not struggle but
allowed me to lead him, straight across to where the window
was--where the window was not;--where there was no sign of
it. "Where is my window? --where is my window?" I
said. And all the time I was sure that I was in a dream, and these
lights were all some theatrical illusion, and the people
talking; and nothing real but the pale, pale, watching,
lingering day standing by to wait until that foolish bubble
should burst.

"My dear," said Mr Pitmilly, "my
dear! Mind that you are in public. Mind where you are. You must not
make an outcry and frighten your Aunt Mary. Come away with
me. Come away, my dear young lady! and you'll take a seat
for a minute or two and compose yourself; and I'll get you
an ice or a little wine." He kept patting my hand, which
was on his arm, and looking at me very anxiously. "Bless
me! bless me! I never thought it would have this effect," he
said.

But I would not allow him to take me away in
that direction. I went to the picture again and looked at
it without seeing it: and then I went across the room again,
with some kind of wild thought that if I insisted I should
find it. "My window--my window!" I said.

There was one of the professors standing
there, and he heard me. "The window!" said he.
"Ah, you've been taken in with what appears outside. It was
put there to be in uniformity with the window on the stair. But it
never was a real window. It is just behind that bookcase.
Many people are taken in by it," he said.

His voice seemed to sound from somewhere far
away, and as if it would go on for ever; and the hall swam
in a dazzle of shining and of noises round me; and the
daylight through the open window grew greyer, waiting till
it should be over, and the bubble burst.

V

IT was Mr Pitmilly who took me home; or rather it was I
who took him, pushing him on a little in front of me,
holding fast by his arm, not waiting for Aunt Mary or any
one. We came out into the daylight again outside, I,
without even a cloak or a shawl, with my bare arms, and
uncovered head, and the pearls round my neck. There was a
rush of the people about, and a baker's boy, that baker's
boy, stood right in my way and cried, "Here's a braw
ane!" shouting to the others: the words struck me somehow, as his
stone had struck the window, without any reason. But I did
not mind the people staring, and hurried across the street,
with Mr Pitmilly half a step in advance. The door was open,
and Janet standing at it, looking out to see what she could
see of the ladies in their grand dresses. She gave a shriek
when she saw me hurrying across the street; but I brushed
past her, and pushed Mr Pitmilly up the stairs, and took him
breathless to the recess, where I threw myself down on the
seat, feeling as if I could not have gone another step
farther, and waved my hand across to the window. "There!
there!" I cried. Ah! there it was--not that senseless
mob--not the theatre and the gas, and the people all in a
murmur and clang of talking. Never in all these days had I
seen that room so clearly. There was a faint tone of light
behind, as if it might have been a reflection from some of
those vulgar lights in the hall, and he sat against it,
calm, wrapped in his thoughts, with his face turned to the
window. Nobody but must have seen him. Janet could have
seen him had I called her up-stairs. It was like a picture,
all the things I knew, and the same attitude, and the
atmosphere, full of quietness, not disturbed by anything. I
pulled Mr Pitmilly's arm before I let him go,--"You see, you
see!" I cried. He gave me the most bewildered look, as if
he would have liked to cry. He saw nothing! I was sure of
that from his eyes. He was an old man, and there was no
vision in him. If I had called up Janet, she would have
seen it all. "My dear!" he said. "My dear!"
waving his hands in a helpless way. "He has been there all these
nights," I cried, "and I thought you could tell me who
he was and what he was doing; and that he might have taken me
in to that room, and showed me, that I might tell papa.
Papa would understand, he would like to hear. Oh, can't you
tell me what work he is doing, Mr Pitmilly? He never lifts
his head as long as the light throws a shadow, and then when
it is like this he turns round and thinks, and takes a
rest!"

Mr Pitmilly was trembling, whether it was
with cold or I know not what. He said, with a shake in his
voice, "My dear young lady--my dear----" and then
stopped and looked at me as if he were going to cry. "It's
peetiful, it's peetiful," he said; and then in another
voice, "I am going across there again to bring your Aunt
Mary home; do you understand, my poor little thing, my I am
going to bring her home--you will be better when she is
here." I was glad when he went away, as he could not see
anything: and I sat alone in the dark which was not dark,
but quite clear light--a light like nothing I ever saw. How
clear it was in that room! not glaring like the gas and the
voices, but so quiet, everything so visible, as if it were
in another world. I heard a little rustle behind me, and
there was Janet, standing staring at me with two big eyes
wide open. She was only a little older than I was. I
called to her, "Janet, come here, come here, and you will
see him,--come here and see him!" impatient that she should
be so shy and keep behind. "Oh, my bonnie young
leddy!" she said, and burst out crying. I stamped my foot at
her, in my indignation that she would not come, and she fled before me
with a rustle and swing of haste, as if she were afraid.
None of them, none of them! not even a girl like myself,
with the sight in her eyes, would understand. I turned back
again, and held out my hands to him sitting there, who was
the only one that knew. "Oh," I said, "say
something to me! I don't know who you are, or what you are: but
you're lonely and so am I; and I only--feel for you. Say something to
me!" I neither hoped that he would hear, nor expected any
answer. How could he hear, with the street between us, and
his window shut, and all the murmuring of the voices and the
people standing about? But for one moment it seemed to me
that there was only him and me in the whole world.

But I gasped with my breath, that had almost
gone from me, when I saw him move in his chair! He had
heard me, though I knew not how. He rose up, and I rose
too, speechless, incapable of anything but this mechanical
movement. He seemed to draw me as if I were a puppet moved
by his will. He came forward to the window, and stood
looking across at me. I was sure that he looked at me. At
last he had seen me: at last he had found out that somebody,
though only a girl, was watching him, looking for him,
believing in him. I was in such trouble and commotion of
mind and trembling, that I could not keep on my feet, but
dropped kneeling on the window-seat, supporting myself
against the window, feeling as if my heart were being drawn
out of me. I cannot describe his face. It was all dim, yet
there was a light on it: I think it must have been a smile;
and as closely as I looked at him he looked at me. His hair
was fair, and there was a little quiver about his lips.
Then he put his hands upon the window to open it. It was
stiff and hard to move; but at last he forced it open with a
sound that echoed all along the street. I saw that the
people heard it, and several looked up. As for me, I put my
hands together, leaning with my face against the glass,
drawn to him as if I could have gone out of myself, my heart
out of my bosom, my eyes out of my head. He opened the
window with a noise that was heard from the West Port to the
Abbey. Could any one doubt that?

And then he leaned forward out of the window,
looking out. There was not one in the street but must have
seen him. He looked at me first, with a little wave of his
hand, as if it were a salutation--yet not exactly that
either, for I thought he waved me away; and then he looked
up and down in the dim shining of the ending day, first to
the east, to the old Abbey towers, and then to the west,
along the broad line of the street where so many people were
coming and going, but so little noise, all like enchanted
folk in an enchanted place. I watched him with such a
melting heart, with such a deep satisfaction as words could
not say; for nobody could tell me now that he was not
there,--nobody could say I was dreaming any more. I watched
him as if I could not breathe--my heart in my throat, my
eyes upon him. He looked up and down, and then he looked
back to me. I was the first, and I was the last, though it
was not for long: he did know, he did see, who it was that
had recognised him and sympathised with him all the time. I
was in a kind of rapture, yet stupor too; my look went with
his look, following it as if I were his shadow; and then
suddenly he was gone, and I saw him no more.

I dropped back again upon my seat, seeking
something to support me, something to lean upon. He had
lifted his hand and waved it once again to me. How he went
I cannot tell, nor where he went I cannot tell; but in a
moment he was away, and the window standing open, and the
room fading into stillness and dimness, yet so clear, with
all its space, and the great picture in its gilded frame
upon the wall. It gave me no pain to see him go away. My
heart was so content, and I was so worn out and
satisfied--for what doubt or question could there be about
him now? As I was lying back as weak as water, Aunt Mary
came in behind me, and flew to me with a little rustle as if
she had come on wings, and put her arms round me, and drew
my head on to her breast. I had begun to cry a little, with
sobs like a child. "You saw him, you saw him!" I said.
To lean upon her, and feel her so soft, so kind, gave me a
pleasure I cannot describe, and her arms round me, and her
voice saying "Honey, my honey!"--as if she were nearly
crying too. Lying there I came back to myself, quite
sweetly, glad of everything. But I wanted some assurance
from them that they had seen him too. I waved my hand to
the window that was still standing open, and the room that
was stealing away into the faint dark. "This time you saw
it all?" I said, getting more eager. "My honey!"
said Aunt Mary, giving me a kiss: and Mr Pitmilly began to walk about
the room with short little steps behind, as if he were out
of patience. I sat straight up and put away Aunt Mary's
arms. "You cannot be so blind, so blind!" I cried.
"Oh, not to-night, at least not to-night!" But neither the one
nor the other made any reply. I shook myself quite free,
and raised myself up. And there, in the middle of the
street, stood the baker's boy like a statue, staring up at
the open window, with his mouth open and his face full of
wonder--breathless, as if he could not believe what he saw.
I darted forward, calling to him, and beckoned him to come
to me. "Oh, bring him up! bring him, bring him to me!"
I cried.

Mr Pitmilly went out directly, and got the
boy by the shoulder. He did not want to come. It was
strange to see the little old gentleman, with his beautiful
frill and his diamond pin, standing out in the street, with
his hand upon the boy's shoulder, and the other boys round,
all in a little crowd. And presently they came towards the
house, the others all following, gaping and wondering. He
came in unwilling, almost resisting, looking as if we meant
him some harm. "Come away, my laddie, come and speak to the
young lady," Mr Pitmilly was saying. And Aunt Mary took my
hands to keep me back. But I would not be kept back.

"Boy," I cried, "you saw it too:
you saw it: tell them you saw it! It is that I want, and no more."

He looked at me as they all did, as if he
thought I was mad. "What's she wantin' wi' me?" he
said; and then, "I did nae harm, even if I did throw a bit stane
at it--and it's nae sin to throw a stane.

"You rascal!" said Mr Pitmilly, giving
him a shake; "have you been throwing stones? You'll kill somebody
some of these days with your stones." The old gentleman was
confused and troubled, for he did not understand what I
wanted, nor anything that had happened. And then Aunt Mary,
holding my hands and drawing me close to her, spoke.
"Laddie," she said, "answer the young lady, like a
good lad. There's no intention of finding fault with you. Answer her,
my man, and then Janet will give ye your supper before you
go."

"Oh speak, speak!" I cried; "answer
them and tell them! you saw that window opened, and the gentleman
look out and wave his hand?"

"I saw nae gentleman," he said, with his
head down, "except this wee gentleman here."

"Listen, laddie," said Aunt Mary.
"I saw ye standing in the middle of the street staring. What were ye
looking at?"

"It was naething to make a wark about. It
was just yon windy yonder in the library that is nae windy.
And it was open as sure's death. You may laugh if you like.
Is that a' she's wantin' wi' me?"

"You are telling a pack of lies,
laddie," Mr Pitmilly said.

"I'm tellin' nae lees--it was standin' open
just like ony ither windy. It's as sure's death. I couldna
believe it mysel'; but it's true."

"And there it is," I cried, turning
round and pointing it out to them with great triumph in my heart. But
the light was all grey, it had faded, it had changed. The
window was just as it had always been, a sombre break upon
the wall.

I was treated like an invalid all that
evening, and taken up-stairs to bed, and Aunt Mary sat up in
my room the whole night through. Whenever I opened my eyes
she was always sitting there close to me, watching. And
there never was in all my life so strange a night. When I
would talk in my excitement, she kissed me and hushed me
like a child. "Oh, honey, you are not the only one!"
she said. "Oh whisht, whisht, bairn! I should never have let
you be there!"

"Aunt Mary, Aunt Mary, you have seen him
too?"

"Oh whisht, whisht, honey!" Aunt Mary
said: her eyes were shining--there were tears in them. "Oh
whisht, whisht! Put it out of your mind, and try to sleep.
I will not speak another word," she cried.

But I had my arms round her, and my mouth at
her ear. "Who is he there?--tell me that and I will ask no
more----"

"Oh honey, rest, and try to sleep! It is
just--how can I tell you?--a dream, a dream! Did you not
hear what Lady Carnbee said?--the women of our blood----"

"What? what? Aunt Mary, oh Aunt
Mary----"

"I canna tell you," she cried in her
agitation, "I canna tell you! How can I tell you, when I
know just what you know and no more? It is a longing all
your life after--it is a looking--for what never comes."

"He will come," I cried. "I shall
see him to-morrow--that I know, I know!"

She kissed me and cried over me, her cheek
hot and wet like mine. "My honey, try if you can sleep--try
if you can sleep: and we'll wait to see what to-morrow
brings."

"I have no fear," said I; and then I
suppose, though it is strange to think of, I must have fallen
asleep--I was so worn-out, and young, and not used to lying
in my bed awake. From time to time I opened my eyes, and
sometimes jumped up remembering everything: but Aunt Mary
was always there to soothe me, and I lay down again in her
shelter like a bird in its nest.

But I would not let them keep me in bed next
day. I was in a kind of fever, not knowing what I did. The
window was quite opaque, without the least glimmer in it,
flat and blank like a piece of wood. Never from the first
day had I seen it so little like a window. "It cannot be
wondered at," I said to myself, "that seeing it like
that, and with eyes that are old, not so clear as mine, they
should think what they do." And then I smiled to myself to
think of the evening and the long light, and whether he
would look out again, or only give me a signal with his
hand. I decided I would like that best: not that he should
take the trouble to come forward and open it again, but just
a turn of his head and a wave of his hand. It would be more
friendly and show more confidence,--not as if I wanted that
kind of demonstration every night.

I did not come down in the afternoon, but
kept at my own window up-stairs alone, till the tea-party
should be over. I could hear them making a great talk; and
I was sure they were all in the recess staring at the
window, and laughing at the silly lassie. Let them laugh!
I felt above all that now. At dinner I was very restless,
hurrying to get it over; and I think Aunt Mary was restless
too. I doubt whether she read her 'Times' when it came; she
opened it up so as to shield her, and watched from a corner.
And I settled myself in the recess, with my heart full of
expectation. I wanted nothing more than to see him writing
at his table, and to turn his head and give me a little wave
of his hand, just to show that he knew I was there. I sat
from half-past seven o'clock to ten o'clock: and the
daylight grew softer and softer, till at last it was as if
it was shining through a pearl, and not a shadow to be seen.
But the window all the time was as black as night, and there
was nothing, nothing there.

Well: but other nights it had been like that:
he would not be there every night only to please me. There
are other things in a man's life, a great learned man like
that. I said to myself I was not disappointed. Why should
I be disappointed? There had been other nights when he was
not there. Aunt Mary watched me, every movement I made, her
eyes shining, often wet, with a pity in them that almost
made me cry: but I felt as if I were more sorry for her than
for myself. And then I flung myself upon her, and asked
her, again and again, what it was, and who it was, imploring
her to tell me if she knew? and when she had seen him, and
what had happened? and what it meant about the women of our
blood? She told me that how it was she could not tell, nor
when: it was just at the time it had to be; and that we all
saw him in our time--"that is," she said, "the
ones that are like you and me." What was it that made her and me
different from the rest? but she only shook her head and
would not tell me. "They say," she said, and then
stopped short. "Oh, honey, try and forget all about it--if I had
but known you were of that kind! They say--that once there
was one that was a Scholar, and liked his books more than
any lady's love. Honey, do not look at me like that. To
think I should have brought all this on you!"

"He was a Scholar?" I cried.

"And one of us, that must have been a light
woman, not like you and me But maybe it was just in
innocence; for who can tell? She waved to him and waved to
him to come over: and yon ring was the token: but he would
not come. But still she sat at her window and waved and
waved--till at last her brothers heard of it, that were
stirring men; and then--oh, my honey, let us speak of it no
more!"

"They killed him!" I cried, carried
away. And then I grasped her with my hands, and gave her a shake,
and flung away from her. "You tell me that to throw dust in
my eyes--when I saw him only last night: and he as living as
I am, and as young!"

"My honey, my honey!" Aunt Mary said.

After that I would not speak to her for a
long time; but she kept close to me, never leaving me when
she could help it, and always with that pity in her eyes.
For the next night it was the same; and the third night.
That third night I thought I could not bear it any longer.
I would have to do something if only I knew what to do! If
it would ever get dark, quite dark, there might be something
to be done. I had wild dreams of stealing out of the house
and getting a ladder, and mounting up to try if I could not
open that window, in the middle of the night--if perhaps I
could get the baker's boy to help me; and then my mind got
into a whirl, and it was as if I had done it; and I could
almost see the boy put the ladder to the window, and hear
him cry out that there was nothing there. Oh, how slow it
was, the night! and how light it was, and everything so
clear no darkness to cover you, no shadow, whether on one
side of the street or on the other side! I could not sleep,
though I was forced to go to bed. And in the deep midnight,
when it is dark dark in every other place, I slipped very
softly down-stairs, though there was one board on the
landing-place that creaked--and opened the door and stepped
out. There was not a soul to be seen, up or down, from the
Abbey to the West Port: and the trees stood like ghosts, and
the silence was terrible, and everything as clear as day.
You don't know what silence is till you find it in the light
like that, not morning but night, no sunrising, no shadow,
but everything as clear as the day.

It did not make any difference as the slow
minutes went on: one o'clock, two o'clock. How strange it
was to hear the clocks striking in that dead light when
there was nobody to hear them! But it made no difference.
The window was quite blank; even the marking of the panes
seemed to have melted away. I stole up again after a long
time, through the silent house, in the clear light, cold and
trembling, with despair in my heart.

I am sure Aunt Mary must have watched and
seen me coming back, for after a while I heard faint sounds
in the house; and very early, when there had come a little
sunshine into the air, she came to my bedside with a cup of
tea in her hand; and she, too, was looking like a ghost.
"Are you warm, honey--are you comfortable?" she said.
"It doesn't matter," said I. I did not feel as if anything
mattered; unless if one could get into the dark
somewhere--the soft, deep dark that would cover you over and
hide you--but I could not tell from what. The dreadful
thing was that there was nothing, nothing to look for,
nothing to hide from--only the silence and the light.

That day my mother came and took me home. I
had not heard she was coming; she arrived quite
unexpectedly, and said she had no time to stay, but must
start the same evening so as to be in London next day, papa
having settled to go abroad. At first I had a wild thought
I would not go. But how can a girl say I will not, when her
mother has come for her, and there is no reason, no reason
in the world, to resist, and no right! I had to go,
whatever I might wish or any one might say. Aunt Mary's
dear eyes were wet; she went about the house drying them
quietly with her handkerchief, but she always said, "It is
the best thing for you, honey--the best thing for you!" Oh,
how I hated to hear it said that it was the best thing, as
if anything mattered, one more than another! The old ladies
were all there in the afternoon, Lady Carnbee looking at me
from under her black lace, and the diamond lurking, sending
out darts from under her finger. She patted me on the
shoulder, and told me to be a good bairn. "And never lippen
to what you see from the window," she said. "The eye
is deceitful as well as the heart." She kept patting me on the
shoulder, and I felt again as if that sharp wicked stone
stung me. Was that what Aunt Mary meant when she said yon
ring was the token? I thought afterwards I saw the mark on
my shoulder. You will say why? How can I tell why? If I
had known, I should have been contented, and it would not
have mattered any more.

I never went back to St Rule's, and for years of my life
I never again looked out of a window when any other window
was in sight. You ask me did I ever see him again? I
cannot tell: the imagination is a great deceiver, as Lady
Carnbee said: and if he stayed there so long, only to punish
the race that had wronged him, why should I ever have seen
him again? for I had received my share. But who can tell
what happens in a heart that often, often, and so long as
that, comes back to do its errand? If it was he whom I have
seen again, the anger is gone from him, and he means good
and no longer harm to the house of the woman that loved him.
I have seen his face looking at me from a crowd. There was
one time when I came home a widow from India, very sad, with
my little children: I am certain I saw him there among all
the people coming to welcome their friends. There was
nobody to welcome me,--for I was not expected: and very sad
was I, without a face I knew: when all at once I saw him,
and he waved his hand to me. My heart leaped up again: I
had forgotten who he was, but only that it was a face I
knew, and I landed almost cheerfully, thinking here was some
one who would help me. But he had disappeared, as he did
from the window, with that one wave of his hand.

And again I was reminded of it all when old
Lady Carnbee died--an old, old woman--and it was found in
her will that she had left me that diamond ring. I am
afraid of it still. It is locked up in an old sandal-wood
box in the lumber-room in the little old country-house which
belongs to me, but where I never live. If any one would
steal it, it would be a relief to my mind. Yet I never knew
what Aunt Mary meant when she said, "Yon ring was the
token," nor what it could have to do with that strange
window in the old College Library of St Rule's.